Pamela Isley: Part one
by DesertIvy
Summary: This is a Poison Ivy reboot. She isn't fantastical, green, or even sane by any means. This is still a rough idea.


June 6th, 2017-

Pamela held the bubbling glass of champagne in her right hand, as she conversed in the Isley estate ballroom. She wore a red gown, one the beautifully matched her flame colored hair. Her red lips curled around her teeth, as she circulated around the guests, thinking them for coming. A giant banner hung across the bannister, reading, "The 4th annual G.E.S.P.A. Charity Ball" in big black letters. She had talked to the new police commissioner, a state legislature, and even a few local television celebrities.

"Hunny" She heard someone call out. She turned to see her husband, Donald, walking towards here in the crowd. Her smile widened, "Hi hun" she replied, as he got closer. "Sweetie, I'd like to introduce you to Luthor Arnold, he owns a business in Gotham as well" Donald said, as Luthor pushed out his hand. Pamela politely offered her own to him. "A pleasure, Mr. Arnold" she said, as she felt the cold grasp of his boney fingers. "The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Isley" he replied. "We are going to go to my smoking room... ok darling?" Donald asked. Being the good wife that Pamela was she nodded "Sure honey... but try not to be too long" she said, worried some of the guests may began to filter out, if the host is nowhere to be found. Donald nodded, and the two worked there way back into the crowd.

September 21st, 2018-

Pamela began to unzip the side of her favorite, green gown. It was strapless, It hugged her curves, and the skirt was bell shaped, and went all the way to the floor. She stood in front of a window in her bedroom, the white curtains filtered in light that matched her milky skin tone. She stopped zipping about halfway down her side. She placed both hands on her dress, remembering a similar dress her mom had when she was a child. She remembered placing her hands on it, feeling the silky green fabric, the heavy patterns stitched into it, and the jewels that had trails along it. She felt those on her own dress, and began to cry softly, only for a moment. A large, gold costume ring clanked against the hard wood of the table. She cried often after the death of her husband. But her mental state was even worse, now that she refused to take her medication to combat her bipolar disorder, and depression. She placed her hands on the small table in front of the window, to help compose herself. She thought of the night her husband was murdered. She thought about the lack of justice and the corruption that fled the city of Gotham. She was in perpetual disgust. Her husband had worked with government officials, only to be murdered by those who opposed him. And Luthor Arnold, she was sure was partially behind the murder of Donald. Her mother asked her if she would change her last name. She scoffed at her mother. If she were to do that, then it would be like Pamela was killing her husband's legacy. She spent her life up to this point, helping those were helpless. But no one could save her when she herself was helpless. Those in their mansions, with their mistresses, and yachts, they were all hypocrites.

She stood there for a few minutes. Hating herself for being sad. She was raised to be a strong woman, a woman who would be capable of conquering over any struggles that she faced. She finishes peeling off her gown, and rummaged in her closet. Finding an outfit she would commonly wear while volunteering. She put on black yoga pants, green khaki shorts, and a dark tank top. accompanied with it was a green bandana, which she normally wore around her neck, or on her head. Her fiery red locks escaping underneath the hood. She grabbed a dark sweater from her closet, and put that on, and wrapped the green bandana around the lower part of her face. She made her way to her husband's closet, which she hadn't touched it since his murder. Various shirts, ties, khaki pants were trailed across the walk-in closet, but she managed to made her way to the back of it, where she parted some clothes on hangers. There she found a Remington pump action shotgun, and some ammo next to it. The gun was unlicensed. Donald always feared what the public may think if they were to find out he owned a gun. She felt the dark, cold steel of the gun barrel, and pulled it out. She felt around on it, feeling its filed down serial number before loading a shell in it, and grabbing two or three more and stuffed them into her sweater pocket.

Taking one of their cars, she sped off into the dusk. She didn't have much of a plan, only an address. Luthor Arnold lived alone. He had been through a few wives, and was "between" them currently. She finally found his home, even further out of the city limits than her own estate. It was secluded, on a large piece of open property. She parked about a quarter of a mile away from the entrance of the home, and shoved the shotgun in her sweater, making sure that the safety was on. She quietly made her way up the dirt trail to the home, checking back a few times to see if there was anyone following, or watching her. Finally she reached the home, and began checking doors, quietly shaking doorknobs near darkened windows, but non would open. She grabbed the shotgun out of her pocket, and considered firing it for a moment, but thought better of it. She grabbed it by the barrel, and pistol-whipped the knob with the handle of it, and the brass knob clanked on the cement below. She stood silent for a moment, only hearing dogs barking in the far distance. She slowly squeaked the door open, and made her way through the shadowy home.

Finally, she made her way up one of the many staircases, and began looking through empty, and dark bedrooms. Near the end of the hall, she noticed one door, with light streaming out of a its cracked opening. Her breathing began to get heavier, and she stood in the darkness. Slowly she made her way to the door, hearing only the sound of television inside. She took one giant breath, and kicked the door open wider, and entered, instantly pointing the gun at Luthor, who sat at a desk. He looked up instantly at Pamela, who held the barrel from across the room. She rushed closer to him, and kicked his shoulder as he sat, sending his chair backwards, crashing into the floor, and held the gun to his baldhead. His lower lip trembled, "Who, who are you! What do you want!" he cried out. Pam shook her head "Shut up asshole! The only thing I want is your blood" she said, pushing the gun harder into his scalp. She pulled it off of him, and backed off a bit. She instantly reconsider what she was doing, not really sure how it even going on at this point, or how her emotions had escalated so quickly. She held the gun to her side, "Wh- What the hell am I doing?" she scolded herself, muffled by the bandana. Luthor slowly got to his feet, and brought his chair back up on its wheels. A fire roared behind Pamela, crackling, and spitting, keeping the room warm amidst the icy, late September air. "If you don't get out of here in ten seconds, I'm calling the police" Luthor threatened, picking the phone up, from his desk, and he began to count. As he hit seven seconds, Pamela again was overtaken by the feelings of anger, anxiety and depression. She lifted the gun, and fired a round into the stomach of Luthor. The force so great the chair rolled back to a dark corner of the room, the phone falling to the hardwood floor below. Luthor struggled to breath, as Pamela walked over to him, a shocked expression on his face. She slowly pushed her hood off of her head, and pulled her bandana down, proudly revealing her red lips to Luthor, his shocked expression not fading from his own face. Pamela turned to the fire, and began taking off her purple heels, and flung them into it, as the fire hissed back at her, leaving her only in her socks. She picked up the shotgun shell, and tossed that in along with it. She heard Luthors labored breathing finally stop. She looked around the bedroom, eyeing valuables, like his wallet, a watch or two, and a ring, and took them with her as she exited the home. She used her socked foot to clear her tracks on the way back to her car, emptying her goods, and the shotgun in the back.

She drove aimlessly. Reaching Gotham, she headed for the Narrows, where she could dump the evidence into the water. She parked near the docks, and in the darkness, began throwing Luthors treasures out, each making a splash as they hit the frigid Gotham Bay water. She emptied her pockets of the extra rounds, and tossed in the shotgun, before heading off, back home.

October 30th, 2018-

Pamela sat on her bed, and sighed. Her hand toying with the large handle of the knife, as it lay on the bed. It had remnants of blood on it from the last time she cut herself, about a week ago. The cuts weren't very deep, and the scars had already seemed hardly noticeable. She wore her red gown; it was unzipped along her back, creating a large V that went all the way to her bottom. She stood up, knife in tow, and walked to her vanity. She placed the knife on it, and began dragging it to the master bathroom. Its legs scratched, and squealed against the floor as she pulled and pushed, and it echoed throughout the large house. These noises were only accompanied by the pitter-patter of rain outside. She finally made it in, and closed the door to the bathroom, before she hopped on the marble counter of the sink. She reached forward, and brought the vanity closer, so her legs were wedged between the bathroom counter, and the large oak vanity.

She tilted the mirror perfectly, so she could see her tattoo on her back, between her right shoulder blade, and shoulder. It was about four inches long, and the bulb about one inch by one inch. She hated looking at it now; it only served as a constant reminder of her dead Husband. She remembered getting it, while on a trip to the Philippines. She could still feel his grip on her hand, as she squeezed him in pain. She reached back as if it to feel it. But all she felt was her cold, creamy skin. She reached for the knife, and wrapped it behind her. She carefully pushed the point into her back, on the edge of the bright, beautiful bulb. Instantly she wanted to shriek, but she held back her tears, and cries of pain, and began to hack away. She felt her skin literally snapping in half as she sawed through it. The knife clinked against her shoulder blade every so often, which instantly streamed more tears down her face. Her breathing became more labored; she could feel her body beginning to go into shock. Finally, she felt her loose piece of skin fall to the counter behind her. It slid along a long trail of blood, and fell out of her unzipped dress. She leaned forward, her face holding in cries for help. She reached back with her hand again, feeling the large wound on her back. She looked into the mirror, blood ran down her back, but the green, twisted stem could still be seen underneath it. She fell forward, toppling over the vanity. The mirror on it cracked and shards of glass splintered across the tile floor. She cried under her breath, and she crawled over the vanity to the bathtub. She got in, still halfway in her dress and turned the faucet on. She laid there, wading in the lukewarm water, as it began to turn red.


End file.
